


Blue

by reginaldthegreat



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Awkward Flirting, F/M, Falling In Love, Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Marriage, Muslim Character, Reader-Insert, Sexual Tension, Waiting For Update
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:53:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28524276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reginaldthegreat/pseuds/reginaldthegreat
Summary: Gupta “Muhammad” Hassan had never really bothered with love. He didn’t have the time. Eventually, he meets a girl who fills his life with the kind of color he never knew he’d been missing.
Relationships: Egypt (Hetalia)/Reader





	Blue

**Author's Note:**

> There are two Arabic words I’ll define for you at the end!

Muhammad was never comfortable around women... with the exception of his mom and his sisters of course. He never really minded the discomfort. After all, he had a country to run. In his free time, which he rarely had, he enjoyed working with pottery, painting each pot with a delicate hand after he baked the clay. His customers were fond of the precise, stunning Arabic calligraphy he had learned to decorate dishes with.

When he was of marriageable age, his mom began talking amongst the older ladies she knew, trying to get to know their daughters so that she could find someone perfect for her son. 

Eventually, she settled on a woman she thought was perfect. The girl was soft spoken, an excellent cook, and top of her class when she was in school. Muhammad couldn’t deny it, upon seeing a picture of her on his mom’s cellphone, that she was kinda pretty. He decided to curb his anxiety long enough to succumb to his mother’s wish for them to meet. 

-

He swallowed as his older brother, Yousif, worked at the collar over his throat. 

“Dude...” he whispered, wincing from how tight the black collar was, “I thought this was specially tailored for me?” 

“It was, you just never wore it so you never noticed when you grew out of it,” Yousif said with a smirk. 

“I can’t breathe.”

“Good.”

After his brother turned his back to rummage through his collection of watches for something that matched his outfit, Muhammad undid the top button. 

“Bro... what am I supposed to say when I meet this girl?” he asked, doing his best to keep his increasing panic under control. 

“It isn’t that hard, man. Just actively listen to what she’s saying,” his brother replied, chiming in with an “Aha!” when he found the perfect watch. 

“The problem isn’t the listening part, it’s the speaking,” Muhammad sighed, exasperated. “Communicating with other human beings in a group setting is actually impossible.” 

Yousif grabbed his wrist with one hand before smacking the watch into his palm with the other. 

“You’ll be fine. Trust me. If she’s not the one, you’ll find another one. These things happen organically, no need to force it.”

He made a face of annoyance. “Easy for you to say, you’re already married.” 

“Yeah well, you’re the one with the looks in the family,” Yousif replied, turning away to leave. 

“...Did you just compliment me?” Muhammad called after him, finally cracking a smile. 

“Won’t happen again. Enjoy the moment,” his brother called back before he disappeared down the hall. 

-

His mother was walking quickly ahead of him, mumbling about how she absolutely _had_ to buy something for the girl’s family before they went to her house, calling over her shoulder for him to hurry up and walk faster. Muhammad hid his eye roll. She was always pestering him about being on time when she was usually the one that was last minute to things. He never argued back though. 

“Okay mama,” he’d respond, dutifully tagging along just in case she decided to buy too many boxes of sweets, too many to carry alone that is. 

When the market came into view, she sped off, her white, sparkly sandals slapping with every step on the sidewalk. 

“I’ll be just a minute!” she called, “don’t go too far!” 

“Yes mama,” he said, sighing and reaching up to undo another button on the collar. It wasn’t too hot today but the constriction around his neck was making him a little sweaty. He was glad Yousif doused him with crap ton of cologne. It would take like, 5 showers to completely dissipate the smell. 

Absentmindedly, Muhammad strolled through the market while waiting for his mother to buy the gift for the girl and her family. Whenever she said “just a minute”, it usually mean she’d be back in about a half hour. He checked his watch anxiously, hoping today would be an exception. 

As he strolled, he admired the sights and smells of the busy street. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen any of it before, it was just that he rarely found the time.

He passed by a bakery, the smell of warmth and comfort seeping out the wide windows, white paint peeling off the sills. He passed a man on the street holding a huge stick, covered in bags of cotton candy. Children pulled their parents towards him, desperate for a pink or blue cloud of sugar of their own. 

What stopped him dead in his tracks though, was a small sandwich stand near the cobblestone bridge over the river. A man in a baseball cap was scooping shredded chicken and veggies into a hole he cut into a piece of pita bread. He worked at a steady but comfortable pace to accommodate the short line forming in front of him. But sitting behind him, was a young woman.

She looked about his age, deeply immersed in a project of her own. She was painting, back turned away from the sandwich man, sitting under the shade of the stand’s tent, studying the river beyond the bridge. In her hand, she had a small plastic palette, full of different shades of blue she had been making herself by mixing the few blues she had with globs of white and green. 

She had a scarf tied loosely around her head, the pale pink fabric billowing with the breeze. Her hands were smeared with colors, the same colors on the palettes. Her cheek, too, had a smudge of blue on it, right next to her lip. 

Muhammad felt himself move to stand in the line. His feet moved independently of his body. He realized, with a growing embarrassment and annoyance towards himself, that he was probably going to buy a sandwich just to try and get a shot at speaking to her. 

The last two people in front of him took an especially long time with their orders, unsure of whether or not they wanted garlic sauce. He rolled his eyes when they refused to have it on the side and eventually didn’t order a sandwich at all, opting for two Cokes. 

When they moved, he looked up to meet the man’s eyes. They were warm and bright, his cheeks a faint pink like a jolly man in a children’s cartoon. 

“What can I help you with?” he asked. 

Muhammad realized, based on his accent, that he wasn’t from Egypt at all. 

“Uh, what’s your most popular item?” he asked. 

“The chicken sandwich,” he laughed, a loud, booming laugh. The girl behind him was startled out of her trance at the sound, her shoulders lifting the slightest bit. “To be honest, I didn’t start off selling these sandwiches. I just made one for my daughter one day with leftover ingredients and she loved it. She told me I absolutely had to add it to the menu. So now, everyone calls me the chicken man!” 

He laughed again, and Muhammad felt his eyes dart back to the woman. So she was his daughter. 

She turned around halfway upon hearing her father’s contagious laughter before looking at them with a smile. Muhammad felt his stomach flip at the sight. 

“I’ll have the chicken sandwich then,” he said, “with everything.” 

“You got it,” the man said, moving to chop a tomato with skillful speed and precision. 

His daughter stretched, setting her brush down on a small cooler labeled “drinks” in black cursive letters. 

Muhammad urged himself to speak, to say something to her before he received his sandwich and the moment was over. 

“I like your painting,” he finally said, his face displaying utter coolness despite the fact that he was internally screaming at the lameness of the compliment. 

She leaned back on the folding chair she was sitting in, turning to study him well for the first time. 

Her eyes were big and curious. He suddenly felt really self conscious, all too aware of how he was standing, the way his hands were hanging at his sides. He should’ve left the gel out of his hair. He should’ve kept the buttons on the collar buttoned up all the way. Should he smile more? Smile less? 

“That’s really kind of you,” she said, her face splitting into a grin. “I only just started. I’m not that good at landscapes but I’m learning.” 

“Don’t listen to her,” her father said as he added a dollop of red chili sauce into the pita pocket, “she’s a brilliant artist. Stepping into her bedroom is like stepping into a gallery.” 

“Babaaa,” she whined, a little embarrassed by the compliment but still smiling, “I mean I’m not good at _landscapes_.” 

Her dad ignored this, wrapping his sandwich in foil tightly before placing in a plastic bag with napkins. 

“Are you from around here, son? I don’t recognize you and I recognize almost everyone in town! I’ve always had a sharp memory, one my daughter failed to inherit.” 

He laughed, her daughter sighing behind him. 

“Don’t listen to him,” she pretended to whisper, cupping a hand over her mouth, “my mom is the only one who’d be able to survive without a GPS.” 

Her father pursed his lips before looking up thoughtfully and nodding as if to say “good point”. 

Muhammad smiled, holding out a few bills to pay. “I do live here, I’m just really busy all the time. Plus, my mom, siblings, and I usually cook, so I don’t have a reason to eat out.” 

The man smiled his pink-cheeked, glowing smile. “Well, I sincerely hope to see you around more often Mr...?” 

“Hassan. Gupta Muhammad Hassan, but I go by Muhammad.” 

“Muhammad,” he nodded affirmatively, peeling off his plastic glove to shake his hand. They introduced themselves as well before they each said their goodbyes. 

Muhammad walked away, plastic bag in hand, wondering if he’d get a chance to see the charming girl and her boisterous father again. 

-

When he made his way back to the center of the market, the place where he and his mother originally parted ways, she was already standing there. He gulped nervously, already knowing what was coming. 

“Where. Have. You. Been?” she asked, emphasizing each word quite loudly. People around them were glancing over curiously to check out the commotion. 

“I... uh...” he glanced down at the bag in his hand, unwilling to admit to his mom that he bought food after already having eaten lunch. 

“What’s that in your hand? I thought you said you weren’t hungry! I’m constantly telling you to eat more, to eat better, and then you jeopardize your relationship with a potential bride to wander around looking for street food?” she snapped, turning and resuming her speed-walk from earlier, holding a tray of kanafeh (1) for the hosts. 

“Sorry mama,” he said. But his heart wasn’t in the apology. His mind was elsewhere, fixated on the sparkle in the young woman’s eyes, the wind in her scarf like a small sail, and the blue paint smudge on her cheek. 

-

“Leyla is a skilled accountant,” the woman said, gesturing to her daughter who was sitting with her hands folded in her lap. “She’s the best employee at her office. She turned down a promotion simply because she didn’t want to move away from us, the sweet girl!” 

Muhammad snuck a glance at the girl their mothers were trying to set him up with. She was pretty, sure, he’d thought that before, but he didn’t feel attracted to her the way he wanted to be. She looked like a porcelain doll: tall, pale, eyelids smudged with deep purple eyeshadow. He tried to will himself into wanting to get to know her, but he mostly just wanted to be back outside. It was strange, he realized, to be craving the scents and sights of the street instead of the safety and familiarity of his pottery room. So very, truly strange. 

“Gupta,” Leyla’s mother asked, “did you hear what I asked?”

He blinked at her, trying his best not to look at his mother. He just knew she was probably furious at his inattentiveness. He decided correcting her for not calling him by his middle name would result in an unprecedented torrent of wrath, so he swallowed the thought and smiled weakly. “Sorry auntie, I didn’t mean to get distracted. I’m just a little nervous.” 

Her terse expression softened at his confession. “You’re a good boy, I can tell. I asked if you wanted any tea?” 

“O-oh, no, JazakAllah (2) auntie,” he said.

“Ah, alright,” she said, turning back to talk to his mother. 

He felt himself lose a firm grip on the conversation again. It was mostly them bragging about his and Leyla’s achievements. Eventually, they stood up to move into the drawing room for tea, leaving he and Leyla to tag along. 

“So,” he said, when they were just out of earshot, realizing he _had_ to say something of substance at this point or else he’d never hear the end of it, “this is kinda wild, huh? Marriage?” 

“I guess,” she replied, her casual tone surprising him. She first came across as an elegant and uptight princess, almost. The candor was unexpected. “To be honest, I’m kind of just desperate to get this wedding thing over with.” 

He raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?” 

“My boyfriend broke up with me so I asked my mom for an arranged marriage. I’m just telling you off the bat because I wouldn’t want to be misled if I were you, you know?” she admitted. 

He stared at her, the dwindling will to come across as an impressive bachelor shriveling up on the spot.

“Well, I appreciate your honesty.” 

“Of course. You seem really sweet,” she noted, her quick blinks sending little bits of loose eyeshadow onto her cheeks. “A sweet guy like you deserves happiness.”

He smiled, grateful, but with an exhaustion setting into his mind. He looked down at his shoes, at their sleek, black shine. He wondered if love would ever come easy to him as he watched the minutes on his watch tick by for the rest of the evening.

**Author's Note:**

> (1) Kanafeh is a Middle Eastern dessert, dough with sweet syrup and cheese. It’s mind blowing, you gotta try it!  
> (2) JazakAllah means “May God reward you with goodness” in Arabic.


End file.
